


blessed silence

by ivelostmyspectacles



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Cock Warming, Jealousy, M/M, Non-Explicit Sex, Possessive Behavior, Praise Kink, Tender Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-06
Updated: 2020-04-06
Packaged: 2021-03-01 16:42:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23510257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivelostmyspectacles/pseuds/ivelostmyspectacles
Summary: Jaskier thrills, wants to wriggle with the promise and threat he hears in Geralt's voice. But he doesn't, because Geralt's told him to stay still.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 13
Kudos: 498
Collections: Dandelion





	blessed silence

He's quick to sink to his knees when they step into their room. He barely lets Geralt close the door behind them before he's reaching for the buttons on his trousers, ready to continue what they'd started downstairs. It's rare enough that Geralt incites any kind of public affection– he's a giving lover, make no mistake, but _public_ isn't one of his things. It's truly a bit disappointing, because Jask really does enjoy showing off, but, well– the thing that had gotten them where they were tonight, if Geralt had anything to say about it. 

He'd asked, asked his witcher what had gotten into him down on the lower level of the tavern. He'd just been performing, making his second, third, fourth? he'd lost track, round of the pub with his poetry and songs, when Geralt had just… exerted his dominance, as Jaskier liked to put it. He'd told him to take a break and then pulled him back onto his lap when Jaskier had declined on the prospect that he needed to work. Geralt, cheeky git, had said he had a _need_ that demanded attention and that Jaskier had to take care of it for him. And so much for work after that, but well… Geralt _was_ kind of his job. Had been, even, since he'd long ago started to mix business and pleasure and– _anyway._ No one could accuse him of _not_ doing his job, that was all. 

He'd asked, asked what had gotten his witcher so keen on the proceedings, and… _preening,_ Geralt had said. As in, Jaskier had been preening about the pub more than usual, and had apparently attracted attention from some of the fairer sex (who could blame them?) Well, actually, Geralt had said _peacocking,_ which had made Jaskier splutter in laughter because what even was _that?_

 _An advanced state of preening,_ Geralt had said flatly, and bit too hard into the flesh above his collarbone. Something not fit for public performance, apparently, and had Geralt been _jealous?_ Jaskier doesn't know. Actually, he doesn't care. Even though he shouldn't persuade the behavior, probably, here he is, deft in slipping the second, third, fourth button of Geralt's trousers free and wiggling his fingers beneath the waistband to try and shuck them down. 

"Put your talents to better use," Geralt says, and that's the kind of thing that's absolutely sinful in the dry way Geralt says it. Dry and monotone but still with that sly smile, and that look in his eyes. 

"I'm working on it. Gods know your trousers are too _tight–"_ His hands are pushed out of the way, and Geralt shoves his trousers down himself. He's level with Geralt's cock then, _also_ a sinful thing, and he smiles even as Geralt slips a hand into his hair and pushes his head angled to satisfaction. "Also, dear witcher, this doesn’t exactly–" 

"Shut up." 

"Aw, but you know you _love_ hearing–" 

"Jaskier." 

It's a tone of voice he's not overly familiar with, but one he's getting to learn to love. Something new, when Geralt puts enough sway into his voice that it freezes Jask in his tracks. And oh gods, it's so… incredibly… _hot._ It's just more than a warning, something he's learned not to test. He stills with his hand on Geralt's hip. His eyelashes flutter against his cheeks. He waits. 

"Find a better use for that _mouth."_

He does without pause. Well, mostly. He stretches just enough to nuzzle the length of his prick, possibly an act of disobedience but Geralt doesn't chastise him. So he breathes there for a moment, one breath in and one breath out, and then he turns to take his cock in mouth as nature and Geralt intended. 

Geralt fills him up and has cock to spare. He's always pushed him past his limits and Jaskier absolutely loves it, loves the looks of annoyance or adoration Geralt sends his way depending on the situation. He loves the way he fills him, like this, and the little tingle that can come from the poultice Geralt sometimes has to apply to the corners of Jask's mouth where they crack from the stretch. (It's worth it, and the poultice tastes sweet even though Geralt has told him time and again to stop licking his lips after it's been applied.) How he settles all the way along his throat, heavy against his tongue. That's familiar. That's rapture. 

He hums a happy note, and barely tries to swallow around him when Geralt's hand in his hair constricts– pulls, hurts; he stops, and is about to pull off to garble a question but Geralt holds _tighter,_ a proper prickle of pain. 

"Stay still." Tone of finality. 

Jaskier thrills, wants to wriggle with the promise and threat he hears in Geralt's voice. But he doesn't, because Geralt's told him to stay still. So still he stays, hardwood floor uncomfortable beneath his knees. The bed's a few feet away, taunting with what will feel like feather down after their nights on the road. But Geralt's told him to stay still, and Jaskier does. 

Geralt doesn't even have to ask. Jaskier would, anyway. 

Geralt is his muse. He belongs fully to him without the cock in his mouth but he will take care of it regardless, letting it rest between his lips even as the chill and ache of kneeling on the floor starts to crawl up his spine and settle into his calves already. The weight on his tongue grounds him, keeps him in place, and he quickly finds that the urge to wiggle falls into obscurity with the way he permits himself closing his eyes to settle in for the long haul. 

A marked difference to the biting and kissing downstairs, and how he'd been slumped against Geralt's lap and chest. But he doesn't mind. It's easy, almost frighteningly so, to let himself give in to the nothing despite the arousal swirling low in the pit of his stomach. It will lessen, and does, the longer he kneels and the longer he manages to stay motionless on the floor in front of him. 

"Good," Geralt praises, eventually. Jaskier feels it from the tip of his hair to the tip of his toes, vibrating through with need and pride. He does not move. He does not. "Good boy." 

He does swallow around Geralt's cock, then, unable to stop himself. The hand in his hair doesn't tighten. It strokes through instead, chasing away the matted knots from their nights out on the road. Careful combing and tiny pinpricks of pain until the tangles are chased away. Geralt keeps petting his hair, and Jaskier feels dizzy. He isn't breathing. He reminds himself to breathe. 

He could die like this, choked by Geralt’s cock, and he doesn’t think he’d mind at all.

For the time being, though, he’s perfectly fine; slightly breathless in a different way, body aching in almost the best ones. He has both hands on Geralt’s hips now, bracketing him between them and himself, fingertips running over the tiny, familiar scars there. Geralt’s hand continues stroking his hair. The floor is cold. The air is cold. Geralt’s body is _warm,_ just shy of a normal human’s, warmer still where Jaskier’s doing his best and breathing on his skin. (He’s never able to take all of him, which is a _shame,_ a crying shame, who told Geralt to go and have such a large prick? _Honestly,_ blessed with everything, some _people–)_ He wants to be able to take him all in, breathe the scent of his skin and swallow until he chokes, which isn’t necessarily a bad thing, but he won’t, because he can’t, and because Geralt’s told him to stay still.

Minutes pass. He can hear life carrying on in the tavern. He wonders if they miss his performances. He doesn’t mind. He’s happy here. Very happy here.

When Geralt steps back, it’s the last thing Jaskier expects. It’s sudden enough, to him, at least, that he nearly pitches forward; he does slump, a bit, has to catch himself with one hand on the hardwood while the other reaches to catch Geralt before he can go. “Geralt,” he manages, complains, garbles a protest, dropped into serene peace so far he finds it difficult to form two syllables on his tongue. He tries again. “Geralt?”

“Very good.” Geralt caresses the side of his face, cupping a large hand at his cheek. “A whole fifteen minutes without speech. _Surprisingly_ well done, given tonight.”

Jaskier quirks a tiny smile, self-deprecating at that, and turns his face further into Geralt’s hand. “Just give me your cock back, witcher.” He has words a-plenty, when he’s allowed to use them. “I want to taste wh–”

The kiss is another surprise. Lingering and deep. Oh, the resurgence of _romantic Geralt._ Always appreciated, although less so when he just wants to suck his cock– gods, that mouth. The way he kisses. Jaskier isn’t breathing again. He has to remind himself to breathe again.

“Geralt… your cock–”

“Bed,” Geralt says, a single, brusque interruption, and oh, _oh._ He’d expected… he _hadn’t_ expected… the ‘mouth for better purposes’ had laid some groundwork that he’d been misled by, apparently…

Not that he’s going to complain. A giving lover he is, too. “Okay,” he agrees readily, with a puff of laughter against Geralt’s mouth. _“Not_ the way I thought the night would go–”

“Are you complaining?”

“No!”

Geralt rolls his eyes as he pulls back, and then bodily hefts Jask off the floor. Like he weighs nothing (he probably doesn’t, to Geralt) like he doesn’t yelp in surprise from the sudden pitch of movement (gods, he wonders if anyone heard that) like Geralt doesn’t slip a hand beneath his arse to stabilize him and like Jask doesn’t have a chokehold grip around his neck as not to fall. More or less, anyway.

They tumble into bed together, and it does feel like heaven, a proper mattress, even as Geralt already has his trousers down now and Jaskier’s shivering a little from the cold. And then from the way Geralt praises him, voice muffled into his hair, and then from the strain of Geralt’s mouth, and fingers, and cock.

It’s just slow enough that he almost wants to scream, and just determined enough that he never quite makes it to verbal complaints. He’s vaguely aware he keeps saying Geralt’s name, that he keeps seeking approval.

Geralt says _good, good, good,_ over and over again, and tells him how in every single way. Until he’s trembling atop him, Geralt’s hands showing him how _good, good, good_ he is, too. Geralt wrings the last vestiges of obedience from him, and Jaskier finds he doesn’t babble all through orgasm like he usually does.

When he curls, heavy, onto Geralt’s chest, still sweat-slick and trembling, he thinks he can hear the compliments with every beat of Geralt’s heart. Or his own pulse. Or maybe that just’s noise from downstairs. He isn’t quite sure.

“Well done,” Geralt rumbles. 

Jaskier hears that for sure. He grins against Geralt’s neck, and says _thank you_ so meek and quiet that, when Geralt doesn’t reply, he’d think he hadn’t heard. But it’s Geralt. He always hears.

As for responses? Well. His witcher’s always been the nonverbal kind of guy. He does love that about him.

Gods know Jaskier likes to talk enough for the both of them, anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> born purely from the urge to write Jask as the chatty little cockslut he is 🙂✊
> 
> but also like, cockwarming and good boy and loving sex afterwards yo. duality of men


End file.
